“Good Lord! I’ve been a fool. I see it now. It covers everything. You’re right.
And Kennedy’s right, too. Listen, Gwenda.
Helen’s preparing to go away with a lover — who that is we don’t know.” Giles brushed her interpolation aside impatiently.
“She’s written her note to her husband — but at that moment he comes in, reads what she’s writing and goes haywire. He crumples up the note, slings it into the waste-basket, and goes for her. She’s terrified, rushes out into the hall–he catches up with her, throttles her–she goes limp and he drops her. And then, standing a little way from her, he quotes those words from The Duchess of Malfi just as the child upstairs has reached the banisters and is peering down.” “And after that?” “The point is, that she isn’t dead. He may have thought she was dead — but she’s merely semi-suffocated. Perhaps her lover comes round–after the frantic husband has started for the doctor’s house on the other side of the town, or perhaps she regains consciousness by herself. Anyway, as soon as she has come to, she beats it.
Beats it quickly. And that explains everything.
Kelvin’s belief that he has killed her.
The disappearance of the clothes, packed and taken away earlier in the day. And the subsequent letters which are perfectly genuine. There you are — that explains everything.” Gwenda said slowly, “It doesn’t explain why Kelvin said he had strangled her in the bedroom.” “He was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all happened.” Gwenda said: “I’d like to believe you. I want to believe…. But I go on feeling sure — quite sure — that when I looked down she was dead — quite dead.” “But how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.” She looked at him queerly.
“I think one can tell — better then than if one was older. It’s like dogs — they know death and throw back their heads and howl. I think children — know death…” “That’s nonsense — that’s fantastic.” The ring of the front-door bell interrupted him. He said, “Who’s that, I wonder?” Gwenda looked dismayed.
“I quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s say anything about all this to her.”
II
Gwenda was afraid that tea might prove a difficult meal–but Miss Marple fortu- nately seemed not to notice that her hostess talked a little too fast and too feverishly, and that her gaiety was somewhat forced. Miss Marple herself was gently garrulous — she was enjoying her stay in Dillmouth so much and — wasn’t it exciting? — some friends of friends others had written to friends of theirs in Dillmouth, and as a result she had received some very pleasant invitations from the local residents.
“One feels so much less of an outsider, if you know what I mean, my dear, if one gets to know some of the people who have been established here for years. For instance, I am going to tea with Mrs. Fane — she is the widow of the senior partner in the best firm of solicitors here. Quite an oldfashioned family firm. Her son is carrying it on now.” The gentle gossiping voice went on. Her landlady was so kind — and made her so comfortable — “and really delicious cooking.
She was for some years with my old friend Mrs. Bantry — although she does not come from this part of the world herself–her aunt lived here for many years and she and her husband used to come here for holidays — so she knows a great deal of the local gossip. Do you find your gardener satisfactory, by the way? I hear that he is considered locally as rather a scrimshanker — more talk than work.” “Talk and tea is his speciality,” said Giles. “He has about five cups of tea a day.
But he works splendidly when we are looking.” “Come out and see the garden,” said Gwenda.
They showed her the house and the garden, and Miss Marple made the proper comments. If Gwenda had feared her shrewd observation of something amiss, then Gwenda was wrong. For Miss Marple showed no cognisance of anything unusual.